Isle of Night (3 page)

Again I turned the key. Again,
click- click-click
, then nothing. I couldn't even swear up a storm; my tongue felt paralyzed with
him
watching me.
Crap.

Was it the ignition? How much did it cost to fix something like that? Hundreds? More than that, even?

Fan-freaking-tastic. What was I supposed to do now? I was way the hell in the middle of
Gainesville
. I couldn't call home. I had a big picture of how
that
would go. The Yatch would go ballistic, and Dad would just scowl, belch, and then demand the remote. Or would he smack me instead for spending all that money on gas when he could've spent it on beer? I swallowed the ache in my throat.

I couldn't go back to that. I
wouldn't
go back.

No college, no place to live, no car, not enough money to fix the car . . .
Tears of frustration stung my eyes and rolled hot down my cheeks.
Why this? Why me? Why now? Could the universe just please cut me one break, for once in my life?

There was movement in my peripheral vision. He was walking over.

Oh, crap.
I scrubbed my face, certain I was leaving inky trails of eyeliner all over what were surely splotchy, puffy cheeks.

He came right up to my driver's-side window. His eyes were looking
really
intense now, like he was the Terminator and he needed to scan my body for radioactivity. His key ring was looped on his finger, and he was flipping it deftly around and around. Tall, dark, hot,
and smooth
.

My mouth went dry. He gave me a slow, predatory smile. But I was still just a
high schooler
, with an awkwardly high IQ and a broken-down '92 Civic.

This was not happening.

CHAPTER THREE

“T
rouble?” He smiled, and up close I saw he had slightly crooked teeth, but somehow it only made him hotter. Like he'd been too masculine to suffer through something as trivial as braces for something as inconsequential as vanity. “Lift the bonnet for me, aye?”

Oh, God
. . . He had an accent. I knew custom required a response, but I could only gape.

He smiled again. His snaggle-toothed accent gave the impression that a young Gerard Butler had stepped off a movie screen and stood before me, live and in 3-D.

“I said, pop the bonnet, love.” He spoke slowly this time, as if I'd fallen too hard off the short bus that morning.

Must respond.
Bonnet.
WTF is a bonnet?

He just stood there waiting. I clamped my slack jaw shut. High schooler, maybe, but I would not be mistaken for a mouth-breather. I followed the line of his eyes. “Ohh, the hood. Yeah, got it.”

Pop the hood. Check. I got out of the car just as he leaned over to peer at my engine.

As I mentioned before, I'm no dummy. I took the opportunity to assess a tight butt and a pair of muscular legs. I love a guy who wears just straight-up jeans. No fancy metrosexual nonsense, just an old, worn pair of Levi's. I wondered whether they were button fly.

He straightened, and I managed to tear my eyes from his nether parts before he caught me staring. “I think it's your carb,” he said, clapping the grease from his hands.

“The only carb I know is the bagel I had for breakfast.” My face froze in place, shocked at the idiocy of my own joke.
Moron! I am such a moron.

He just stared. Of course he did, since I'd just said the Dumbest Thing Ever. I used to wish I were average, but I took it all back. I wanted to be sparkling and witty and magnetic.

“Kidding,” I mumbled. “I know you meant carburetor. Internal combustion, et cetera.”

He strolled around the car, eyeing it with the indifference one might give a bit of rubbish in a bin. “Shall I arrange a tow?”

Not unless there's a nearby bank I can rob.
“No, thank you,” I told him instead.

He came full circle to lean against the side. He crossed his arms, and I had to pull my gaze from the thickness of his biceps and from the quote tattooed there. “Is there someone I can ring for you?”

“No.” I cleared my throat, inexplicably sad that our little encounter was quickly drawing to a close.
Paradis perdu.
I had the feeling he'd forever be
my
lost paradise. “I'll make it on my own.”

“Oh, dear.” He shook his head, and I thought my heart might pound out of my chest. A man of such gigantic hotness saying
“Oh, dear”
was just too unbearably sexy. “A fine woman like you, all alone . . .”

Did he just call me a
woman
? I bit my lip, trying not to blush like a child. I tried to act flip, but my laugh in response sounded more like a weak puff of air.

What could he mean,
like you
? If I had a type, I'd be qualified as Surly Valedictorian. Definitely never have I ever been placed in a category even close to Fine Woman.

His eyes roved up and down my body, and I gave a quick tug on my shirt, even though I knew all my bits—modest though they were—languished safely in their appropriate places.

“A nasty predator could come and snatch you up.” He gave me a wicked smile, his accent making what was probably just a playful comment sound dangerous. And then he
winked
.

Jeez, I thought my heart would explode on the spot. The last time a guy
winked
at me was years ago, and that'd been a creepy mall Santa.

“I'll be fine,” I managed. “I'll just go back into the registrar's office and . . .”
And what?

He eyed me speculatively. “Aren't you a bit young for university ? What of your parents?”

Okay, that stung. So much for me looking all fine and womanly. I fought the urge to tug on the brim of my hat.

Really, did he have to ask about my parents? I normally liked to give a conversation ten minutes before hashing out the Painful Life Story. He's lucky something—I swear—softened around his eyes, because that's the only reason I answered. “Early graduation. I moved out.”

“You can't be much older than sixteen,” he mused. “You must be very bright.”

I bristled. People see a petite blonde and assume you're some impressionable schoolgirl. “Eighteen on my next birthday.”

He gave me a wicked smile. The guy was
toying
with me. So which was it:
a bit young
or
fine woman
? I wished I were gutsy enough to ask.

“But you're not going home?” He pinned me with a steady stare, and suddenly the prospect of discussing Ye Olde Home Life wasn't such a bummer.

“To Christmas?” Taking his raised brows for confusion, I added, “Yeah, some loser named a town Christmas, if you can believe it. And no, I don't think I'll be going home. It's just Coors—that's my dad—and the Yatch.” I could tell he wasn't following, so I spelled it out. “You know, as in
bee-yatch
.”

No smile, no response. Then he said, “Is the insipid slang intended to make you sound tough?”

Floored, I gaped at him. I was pretty damned tough already, thanks for asking. Or at least that's what I wanted to say to him. But his voice had been low and quiet, as though he'd identified some truth about me.

“Never mind that. Come, Annelise.” He stepped toward me, reaching out his hand. “I'll drive you.”

It took a moment for my brain to register the words, as my hormones sent a million other thoughts
(He's even taller up close! We'll sit all cooped up together in that fancy car! We'll talk about Proust and share chocolate madeleines!)
running roughshod over logic and reason.

Finally, a single nugget of good sense hit me:
When did I tell him my name?

I eyed him. He didn't seem like a serial killer. But, then again, what did serial killers seem like? Would a cold-blooded killer have been so obviously hanging out at the registrar's for all to see?

Why
not
hitch a ride somewhere? What could happen? The car windows were clear glass, and I imagined the doors were fully operational. Plus, the trunk was way too tiny to hide a body.

More important, where else was I supposed to go?

“I don't even know your name,” I said, wanting to trust him.

His arm was outstretched, and it was gallant, not so much
Let's shake
as it was an exhilarating
Take my hand
. He locked his eyes with mine, and I felt as if I might spin into their green depths. Goose bumps shimmered across my flesh.

I couldn't help it. I let my hand slide into his, and he gave it a gentle squeeze. His grip was strong and smooth and warm. “Ronan,” he said simply.

At his touch, all my concerns dropped away. My skin warmed, the surface of it buzzing, as if electricity were arcing between us.

He led me to the passenger's door. As my hand slid from his, my mind seemed to clear. I watched as he walked around to tuck my duffel in the trunk.

I knew a flicker of doubt, then recalled the feel of his fingers grazing across mine. I decided he seemed nice enough, just a kindly stranger. What would be the harm in catching a ride to some spring break town?

I made my decision. Opened the door.
Here goes nothing.
I folded myself into the tiny cockpit, smoothing my hands over the buttery black leather and pristine cherrywood dash.

Ronan got in, and the scent of male wrapped around me like a musky and intoxicating incense.

“Where are you from?” I asked a little dreamily, wondering what the hell
this
guy's major could be. “You can't really be a UF student. Can you?”

He pinned me with those intense eyes and inhaled deeply. It felt like he was breathing me in. Did he feel my presence as intensely as I felt his? A shiver rippled across my skin.

“Oh, God,” I heard myself murmur.

He gave a husky laugh, and a sensation so overpowering thrummed through me, I was grateful to be sitting down. “
God
, is it? Do you believe in God, Annelise?”

“
Somebody
had enough irony to pack a hundred eighty-five IQ points into a blond head.”

Startlingly, Ronan laughed outright. Deep and loud, like he was at the pub and his team had just scored on the telly.

Honestly, it rocked my world. Usually I felt like I was cracking jokes in a language nobody else understood. Or sometimes
I
was the punch line—and believe me, it was a
really
awkward one. He got the joke, though, and the camaraderie of his laughter silenced me.

He held my gaze, finally asking, “Where to?”

“I don't know.” Where was I supposed to go? I had to find a place to crash ASAP, and then there was my car to deal with, too. I could call a tow truck in Gainesville once I scraped together enough money, so I needed to find a job, like, yesterday. Preferably someplace where employees got free food, which meant back to waitressing for me. I knew the average Florida beach town had a crappy chain restaurant on every corner—maybe that was the answer.

I was riding the buzz of his laughter, elated by the sensation that somebody
got
me. I let the feeling shine through in the nonchalant tone of my response. “How about the coast?”

“The coast,” he repeated simply, and the power of it was heady. I was sitting in a car that cost more than anything
I'd
ever seen, with a guy drop-dead gorgeous enough to be a movie star, who'd not even blinked when the lady mentioned that perhaps she might have a yen for the coast.

Ronan turned onto the interstate, headed south. It was your standard-issue hideous stretch of highway. If you've ever wondered why Florida produced so many serial killers, take a drive along one of the state roads that cut through its very middle. You could practically see the menace wafting off the tarmac like those heat waves you got on long and desolate road trips.

Finally, he broached our destination. “What awaits you on the coast?”

Probably a homeless shelter, followed by a frantic search for a waitressing gig.
But I chose not to say those bits. Let him think me a casual, come-what-may sort of girl.

Instead, I told him, “It's what
doesn't
await me.” Namely, a drunk dad, an evil stepmother, and another semester of being a social outcast at my high school.

My shoulders slumped the way they did every time I thought of Christmas, and deliberately I pulled them back, lifting my chin for good measure. “You try living in the boonies outside Orlando. It sucks. It's hot. The rest of the state has all kinds of water and waves, and what do we get?”

He merely raised a brow.

“Gators, that's what.”

“A hunter like any other.” He shrugged, not seeming very impressed. He slipped the car into fifth, and it hummed like a tenor warming up at the Met. “This is what has you so outraged?”